Breathing in Snowflakes
by WhichWolfWins
Summary: Sherlock returns and John doesn't know how to handle it.


*This is what I came up with for johnlockchallenges grab bag challenge. The prompt was dialogue. I was assigned to no-duh-im-johnlocked and the dialogue I was given was, "They say, he's in the class A Team, Stuck in his daydream". This fic is in no way brit-picked or beta'd, so if you see any mistakes, they are my own and I would love for you to inform me of them! :)*

_Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC, and anyone else involved with the making and producing of this show. The song the lyrics came from is 'A Team' by Ed Sheeran. This is in no way mine; these are their toys and I am simply playing with them.  
_

* * *

As John walked home with a bag of milk dangling from the tips of his fingers, he was humming. _White lips, pale face, breathing in snowflakes..._ He'd heard the bloody song while he was waiting in the queue at the Tesco and now it was stuck in his head. Unfortunately, he only remembered two lines, and he was pretty sure he had them wrong. _And they say he's in the class A Team, stuck in his daydreams, been this way since 18..._

It was a bit chilly out. It had been warmer on his way to the store, but between the time he arrived at the Tesco and the time he left, it had started to snow, and now fluffy white snowflakes were drifting down from the white-washed sky, landing on his head and neck. They melted and dripped down his back to make him shiver.

As he neared 221, John noticed someone was sitting on the front steps. Whoever it was sat with their head held high, hands tucked away in their hoodie pockets, and their face hidden by the black hood pulled up over their head to block out the snow.

John hesitated momentarily. After... After, John sometimes had people in Sherlock's homeless network show up in need of care. A cut that needed stitching, a hand that needed bracing, a place, _please, just for tonight, and I promise I'll be gone before you wake up_. And John took care of them, because, as Mycroft had so thankfully pointed out when they had first met, John was loyal to a fault.

"'scuse me mate, I need to get past you," John said, digging the keys out of his pocket while keeping a tentative eye on the shadowed figure at his doorstep in case whoever it was might try attacking him.

At the sound of John's voice, the person's head ducked down and their hands came up to push back their hood, revealing a head of dark curls. John's breath hitched and he held the keys in a death grip as the man on his doorstep turned to him.

White lips, pale face, teeth clenched against the teeth-chattering cold, Sherlock turned his face up to John. Snowflakes landed on his pale skin and melted, looking almost like tears as they slipped down the sharp curve of his cheekbones. _'Look at those cheekbones, I could cut myself slapping that face. Would you like me to try?'_

"John," Sherlock said, and that voice... John had thought he'd heard it for the last time telling him goodbye.

He stared in complete shock, still gripping the keys and the bag of milk as tight as his frozen hands would let him.

When Sherlock looked as if he were going to stand, John shouted, "No!" He pointed his finger at Sherlock, directing him to stay down. "Don't... don't you dare come any closer!"

John slipped quickly past Sherlock and shoved his key in the keyhole, willing his hands not to shake and skitter the key around the lock. He shoved the door open and ran up the stairs, knowing Mrs. Hudson would chastise him later for it. She hadn't heard that much noise since Before.

Once at his door, John let himself in and dropped the milk just inside on the hardwood floor. He paced a few steps then turned back to the door, turned away, then turned back again. Then he forced himself to look away from the door, just remove the temptation to use it and run back down to Sherlock, because he didn't know what he might do if he did.

His mind was at war with itself. On the one hand, John wanted to flee. Run away and never look back. Sherlock was alive, had lied to him this whole time. Three bloody years and now he was back, sitting on his doorstep like nothing had happened.

On the other hand, why? Why had Sherlock lied, why was he alive, why was he here? Why, after all this time, was Sherlock here? There had to be a reason... there just had to.

He turned back to the door and his heart nearly leapt into his throat when he found Sherlock standing just outside the door, his hands out of his pockets and held tentatively at his sides like he didn't know what to do.

"I said don't," John said, holding his hand up like a barricade, his voice cracking on the last word.

Sherlock moved into the sitting room and stopped a few feet away, his light blue-gray-green eyes wide and searching; for what, John didn't know.

John kept his hand up, shaking his head. He felt disbelief, shock, confusion, hurt, want, need... need. Before he could think, he strode forward and pulled his fist back and brought it down, hard, on Sherlock's cheekbone.

Sherlock gasped and he hit the floor, looked up at John with wide expectant eyes and kept his hands at his sides as if to give John access to hit him all he wanted.

John followed Sherlock down. He knelt in front of him and took Sherlock's face in his hands, careful not to press into his injured cheekbone, pulled Sherlock up and crashed his lips against Sherlock's. He held him close and just kissed him with every emotion he'd felt since Sherlock had gone.

Sherlock's hands came up and he dug his fingers into John's neck to keep him there. He kept his eyes open, unwilling to miss it as John's kisses got gentler and gentler and travelled across his cheek to his aching cheekbone. He pressed apologetic kisses to the welt and Sherlock watched with tears threatening to fall.

"Sherlock," John croaked, wrapping his arms around Sherlock and tucking his head into the space between them. He kissed Sherlock's neck softly and tears slid down his cheeks, dripped down under the neck of Sherlock's hoodie.

"John..." Sherlock said, pushing his nose into John's hair and holding him close.

"I've missed you so much," John said, digging his fingers into the soft fabric of Sherlock's black hoodie.

"I've been lost without my blogger."

John pulled back and found Sherlock grinning, actually grinning, down at him, and John couldn't help but smile back, giggling and crying, because he'd thought he would never see Sherlock's face again. "Don't you ever leave me again, you bastard," he said, pressing a smiling kiss to Sherlock's lips.

"Never again, John," Sherlock said. He cupped John's cheek in his hand and rested his head on John's shoulder. "Never again."


End file.
